Kathryn Smith (11 page)

Unfortunately, the next time he saw her was also when he would start trying to ascertain where she kept the tiara.

Why did she look at him in the street that day? Why did she ever have to peer into his soul with those damn eyes of hers? If only he had never noticed her. If only she had never noticed him. This would be so much easier if he didn’t like her.

Then again, his seduction of her would give him ample opportunity to search her house.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. “I am such a bastard.”

As he spoke the words, a gust of wind blew hard against the window, rattling the glass. It was as though the night itself agreed with him.

A
t exactly one minute past seven the following evening, Wynthrope knocked on Moira’s front door. He had wanted to come earlier, so strong had been his desire to see her, but it wouldn’t do to appear too eager—especially since he was going to be staying after the other guests had left.

Even so, it had been a struggle to be even a minute late. He stood on the step, his greatcoat open despite the wind, grateful for the cold drops of rain that spattered against his cheeks. He needed to cool this fire in his blood, this awful excitement he felt every time he knew he was going to see Moira.

He had to keep his wits about him. She was business, not just pleasure anymore. If he was going to find out where she kept that damn tiara, he couldn’t get too caught up in his enthusiasm for her, no matter how much he wanted to.

He usually was so careful in everything he did. He never got too close, never let people inside. How ironic, how amusing and terribly painful that the only person to ever
make him want to let someone in was someone he had to use—someone he had to take from, despite all that she freely offered.

The door opened. A butler—or at least Wynthrope
thought
this was the butler—greeted him.

“Good evening, good evening!” Round, red cheeks glowed. Sparkling blue eyes smiled up at him. “Come in, good sir!”

Bemused, Wynthrope did just that, never taking his eyes off the corpulent little man who stood no higher than his chest and had hair as white and untamed as lamb’s wool. He wore not the usual austere uniform of the highest ranking household servant, but a bright scarlet coat and matching shoes. His waistcoat was a dark green.

The gnome caught him staring and didn’t seem the least offended. “Christmas colors, my good man. I like to think of myself as a holly berry this time of year.”

Strangely enough, Wynthrope found himself nodding. “That is the very thing I thought of when you opened the door.”

The old man grinned, turning his face into a creased ball of little more than cheeks. He certainly was an odd choice for a butler—nothing the least bit subservient in his demeanor at all. “That’s the spirit. Now, you must be Mr. Wynthrope Ryland. I am Chester. Lady Aubourn’s expecting you. If you would just follow me.”

Most butlers asked for a guest’s name when he arrived, or for his card. It was strange, this man knowing who he was when they had never met before. True, Moira’s gathering was undoubtedly small, but it was nice to feel so welcomed.

This was the first time he had been in Moira’s house, other than his clandestine visit the other evening. As he followed the portly but spry Chester through the hall, he took this chance to commit what he could of the house’s layout to memory.

The hall was spacious and decorated in shades of taupe, cream, and slate blue. Paintings adorned the walls. More of the late viscount’s work, perhaps? Some were portraits and others were scenes from the Bible or Greek myths. Anthony Tyndale had been a very talented artist. His work appealed to Wynthrope on an emotional level that few others achieved.

One thing was for certain, it was unlikely Moira kept a safe down here. The best he could hope for was that it was located in one of the rooms downstairs, or perhaps her private apartments above. The worst was that the housekeeper was in charge of storing such valuables and had a safe tucked somewhere in the bowels of the house. He’d faced such a situation before and it had been a pain in the arse to find.

The hall branched into a wide corridor, brightened with even more cream paint and delicate plaster work. Two doors on the right, three on the left. It was the last of these doors that Chester led him to.

“Mr. Ryland,” the woolly-haired butler announced before stepping back and favoring Wynthrope with a smile. Then he bowed and took his leave.

“Wynthrope,” Moira’s voice greeted him with a pleasant huskiness, as welcome to him as the sun itself. Clad in a gown the color of rich, fragrant cloves, she came to him with her hands outstretched, and he gave her his own without hesitation.

“That Chester fellow is amazing,” he remarked, kissing her cheek. She even smelled of cloves. “Wherever did you find him?”

It took all his strength to lift his head from hers, even though he wanted to bury his face in the warm hollow of her neck, where a tiny tendril of dark hair curled against the paleness of her skin.

“Anthony hired him when we married. I couldn’t bear to
leave him for the new viscount and his family, so I brought him with me.” She squeezed and then released his hands. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

It was then and only then that Wynthrope realized they were not alone. Idiot. He should have been aware of the others as soon as he entered the room, but he’d had eyes for Moira and no one else. Her sister Minerva sat near the hearth, eyeing them with youthful interest. North and Octavia, his brother and sister-in-law, blinked almost in unison before exchanging glances that said more than Wynthrope could ever hope to read. One thing was for certain, both of them knew there was something between himself and Moira. They looked so smug and pleased. If only they knew what he planned, they would not be so content.

“Good evening,” he said, bowing to the three of them. He avoided his brother’s gaze. The last thing he wanted right now was to see North laughing at him.

“Would you care for a drink?” Moira asked. “Wine? Or perhaps something a little stronger?”

Was it his imagination, or was she baiting him? The twinkle in her multicolored eyes told him she sensed his discomfort and was enjoying it.

“Nothing, thank you,” he replied, his gaze locked with hers. “I wish to keep a clear head for our game later.”

Judging by the delectable blush that tinted her cheeks, she knew he referred to more than just their chess match.

“Game?” North asked. “What game?”

“You are so nosy,” Wynthrope remarked with more smirk than scowl as he turned to face his sibling. “If you must know, Lady Aubourn has challenged me to a game of chess.”

Moira shot him a surprised glance. She didn’t expect him to admit that he had issued the challenge, did she? North and Octavia would know for certain he was interested in her then.

“I thought I told you to call me Moira,” she said, holding
his gaze. “After all, you made such a fuss about me calling you Wynthrope.”

Touché. So she was not going to let him get away with embarrassing her without a jab of her own. A slow smile curved his lips, and he was about to reply when he caught sight of his brother out of the corner of his eye. Both North and Octavia were practically vibrating with speculation. He would have to be careful just how much eye contact he made with the seductive viscountess.

“I hope you have not wagered any money, Wyn,” Octavia warned jovially. “Moira is very good.”

“Are you joking?” Her husband’s expression was incredulous. “My brother would wager his firstborn before he’d risk any blunt.”

Wynthrope’s eyes widened. Did he slap his brother or laugh? “Are you implying that I’m tight with my money?”

North nodded, as though it should be obvious. “Yes. That is exactly what I am saying.”

“I’m not the one who doesn’t own a carriage and hasn’t a valet.”

“No, but your valet is your only servant other than a woman who cleans once a week and you live in rooms when you could afford a house.”

“What is the point in having a house when I would be alone in it?” Bloody hell. Too late he realized all that he had said with that one idiotic sentence, spoken more testily than he’d meant. The room fell silent, the other occupants looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Except for Moira. She fixed him with a sympathetic but understanding smile. “I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes it is lonely living alone. The solution is to fill the house with possessions that have meaning and people you love as often as possible.” She shared her smile with her sister and her friends.

What a pity he was going to have to hurt her. This was a woman Wynthrope could actually imagine falling in love with. Love. Whoever would have thought that
he
would entertain such a notion? But if love was an intense longing, a desire to spend the rest of his days in a house with one person, then love was definitely an emotion Moira Tyndale could inspire.

“Here, here,” North remarked raising his glance. What was he agreeing to? Oh yes, Moira’s notion of filling a house with loved ones as often as possible. Too bad Wynthrope hadn’t taken that drink. He would have drunk to that himself.

It was only a few moments later that Chester came to announce that dinner was ready. Wynthrope escorted both Moira and Minnie to save the young woman from being left out, and allowed Moira to direct him toward the dining room.

Dinner was a casual affair, with good food, good conversation, laughter, and good company. They were all comfortable and easy with one another, even Minerva, whom Wynthrope often thought of as disagreeable. Tonight she was all youthful smiles and inquisitive innocence. Perhaps it was the influence of her older sister. Who wouldn’t be a better person after a few weeks with Moira?

Lord knew she made him want to be a better person, and a few weeks was all the acquaintance he had with her.

Throughout the meal, he could scarcely take his eyes off her, and he didn’t give a damn if his brother noticed or not. She kept sneaking glances at him as well. Was she waiting for the end of the meal as he was, counting the minutes until they would be alone?

Finally, after dessert and after port in the drawing room, North and Octavia took their leave, and Minnie went off to read in her room.

“Shall we have our game now, my lady?” he inquired softly when they were finally alone.

Moira eyed him with an expression that made his blood run hot. She reminded him of a fawn, unsure of whether to bolt or come closer. Curiosity and interest won out and she nodded. “I hope the library is a suitable venue?”

Ah, the library. That room where he had tasted her lips just two nights before, where Anthony Tyndale’s sad portrait of her hung among the other angels.

“The library is fine.” Strangely enough, it was. Though this house had many reminders of the late viscount, Wynthrope didn’t feel as though the man’s memory posed any kind of hindrance to his seducing Moira. Jealous he sometimes was of Anthony Tyndale, but he wasn’t threatened by him.

He followed her down the corridor, admiring the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. She might not be a lushly figured woman, but she was all grace and ease, moving with a sensuality she seemed totally ignorant of. He’d follow her on foot to Scotland just to admire her walk.

There was a table already set up when they entered the library. A small, gilt-trimmed, black-lacquered affair, with ebony and ivory squares inlaid on the top, held matching pieces on their corresponding colors, waiting for the first move to be made.

Wynthrope gestured to the seat on the white side of the board. “Ladies first.”

She flashed him a narrow glance. “Are you suggesting that I need all the advantage I can get, Wynthrope?”

“Not at all.” Smiling came easy with her. “Would you prefer I make the first move?”

He could see her shiver and knew she had taken his words in a context far removed from chess. To hell with the game. Maybe he should kiss her instead.

“No retracting now.” She slid into the chair. “I will play white.”

She was much more suited to black, but he didn’t tell her
that. In truth, he didn’t care what color she played, or who won. He wasn’t leaving until he had tasted her lips once more.

Moira made the opening move, firmly grasping one of her pawns and moving it toward the center of the board. He countered by moving one of his own pawns forward to hers. Moira moved again.

“We should have a little conversation, should we not?” he asked as he considered his next move.

“If you wish.”

Obviously she wasn’t much for talking as she played. A point he could no doubt use to his advantage, especially if conversation threw her off balance.

“What do you plan to have me do if you win?” He moved another pawn, setting it up for her to take.

“
When
I win,” she corrected, jumping at the bait and taking his pawn. “I have not thought about it.”

“Liar.” He smiled at the chagrined look she tossed him and casually offered up another pawn. “Do you plan to start with kissing, or do you want to force me to your bedroom?”

Color bloomed in her cheeks as she took the second piece. “I plan to do neither. Now, are you going to treat me as a serious opponent, or are you going to purposely allow me to win?”

Ah, she didn’t like thinking he might “allow” her anything. Did she believe he wanted to be at her mercy? What a joke. Perhaps if she were a bit more sure, a bit more skilled at seduction, he would want just that, but she was no more prepared to seduce him than he was to let her win.

“Do you want me to let you win?” He brought out his bishop. “Are you that desperate to have your way with me?”

Moira was thoroughly flustered. He could see it, even though she tried to hide it. She brought out a knight. “I do not believe I would have to sink to desperation, sir. You are quite ready to offer yourself on a platter as it is.”

Wynthrope laughed at that—a loud guffaw that almost hurt, it was so sudden and strange. He made his next play. “I am no challenge, is that what you are saying?”

Moira countered his move. “None whatsoever.”

Now she was getting cocky. Time to prove to her just how much of a danger he truly was. She believed he was out to simply seduce her, and in a way she was right, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to
win
her, and that took considerably more skill than seduction.

He simply smiled and moved once more. Moira frowned at the board. She was now realizing that her queen was in peril while he had managed to fortify his king with a row of pawns. She hesitated only a moment before moving in to take one of his pawns, too late realizing her folly. He reached over the board, picked up the rook, and used it to block her queen. There was no way for her to retaliate or else her king would be lost.